


the boundary you leave behind

by smithens



Series: en l'année 1830 [4]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Era, Friendship/Love, Hair Washing, Injury Recovery, Intimacy, July Revolution, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Unresolved Emotional Tension, logic and philosophy week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8427535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: this was a prompt from months ago, and it is now my last contribution to Logic & Philosophy week 2016 (which is hosted by the lovely oilan).i couldn't think of a summary. i'll come back to it.takes place in my July Revolution series, but as with all these pieces, the exact chronology is a little hazy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anacrea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anacrea/gifts).



> this was a prompt from months ago, and it is now my last contribution to Logic & Philosophy week 2016 (which is hosted by the lovely oilan).
> 
> i couldn't think of a summary. i'll come back to it.
> 
> takes place in my July Revolution series, but as with all these pieces, the exact chronology is a little hazy.

To be bathed in this way is unfamiliar, a therapy used before but since forgotten, and Enjolras finds it somehow both rather discomfiting and a great relief.

Yet Combeferre’s strange hesitance to touch him, after he had so insisted upon providing aid, only adds to the peculiarity: he trails his fingers up the side of Enjolras’s uninjured arm, but he is not scrubbing like he was moments before.

Enjolras trembles involuntarily.

Combeferre ceases his motion abruptly. Enjolras shakes his head, breathes in and out as steady as he can. He wants to say, _it is pleasant_ , but though he may be unabashed in the feeling, the words somehow cannot make it to his lips. Lethargy is a foreign sensation to him, and though he knows he is hindered by fatigue and fever both, it is a struggle still to accept these limitations. Though that fever broke several days ago, he will not be entirely free of its effects on his body for some time.

Now that he is lucid, now that he can walk and stand and move his limbs without dizziness or swooning, it is reasonable to bathe: whatever is left over from the violence of the revolution will do the remainder of his recovery no favors.

Indeed, when Bahorel and Combeferre, angry and disheartened, had brought him to the latter’s rooms several weeks ago, there had been time enough only to wipe his skin with a damp cloth before deeming stitches necessary. And after weaving a long ladder of sutures along his arm, Combeferre himself had been wary to do more than dress and redress the area - particularly once infection took hold, and his priorities altered.

That, at least, was how Combeferre had explained the matter to him as he boiled water for a bath earlier in the morning.

And even with the threads cut, with the infection gone, Enjolras can sense that Combeferre is taking care around the now-closed wound. It is nearly healed, no longer swollen and inflamed but certainly soon to scar, and yet, now that its pain is no longer overbearing, Enjolras finds the soreness of his whole body more evident. The bruises at his torso are finally a faded yellow, but his chest and ribs still pain him.

Warm water, cooled from boiling, provides an unexpected relief: in the short time Enjolras has spent in the tub, his aches have greatly subsided. Still, his injuries feel ever-present.

Above him, Combeferre begins to whistle a slow, quiet tune, then goes silent as he moves - behind him, Enjolras thinks, though he keeps his eyes closed - to rub the cloth at his bare shoulder.

No other has touched him so but Combeferre.

Even in languid silence, his presence alone is calming. Were he any other man, this would not be so personal an act - yet, with someone more clinical, or less caring, he knows he would be ill at ease.

And Combeferre has sacrificed more than Enjolras ever expected of him.

“I am grateful,” he says, breathless as Combeferre rubs the cloth at the nape of his neck.

The response is immediate: “You would do the same for me, were it necessary.”

After the past month, such a pronouncement is correct only in sentimentality: to have a surgeon for a friend is a blessing, until he is the one in need of medical attention.

As such it is not merely for the tenderness Enjolras receives now that he feels this way; if Combeferre knows this, he does not show it. His touches, delicate even with his hands still calloused from gripping pistols and paving stones, betray nothing of his emotion.

The touches move lower, toward the top of the gash along his arm, and Enjolras flinches.

"Have I hurt you? The wound?"

Combeferre's voice is hushed, as though he must still tread lightly with his words. Though the cossetting does grow wearisome, Enjolras finds it almost understandable. In the last weeks, Combeferre has burdened himself with delivering the unfortunate news regarding Paris under the provisional government to him daily, and to their friends - Feuilly, who must now out of necessity keep his distance from politics in public, and Courfeyrac, drifting in and out of respectable situations, who could not always learn of it themselves. Now, the news is of a government not provisional but permanent - or, intended to be so.

Such a duty - self appointed or otherwise - requires nuance and tact in addition to his usual eloquence. They are all lucky that Combeferre's powers of speech extend far beyond persuasion.

Enjolras will not begrudge him the desire to maintain this attitude, but after a month spent mostly in bed he has found that he is restricted in ways which at once sadden and infuriate him.

“No,” he says. “It is not that.”

“Pardon me, then.”

At times he feels as though he exhausted his supply of words shortly after he exhausted his supply of gunpowder. Ordinarily, speaking comes easily to Enjolras.  Spontaneity and sincerity serve him well, and he is not oblivious to the power of his own voice. The depths of his feelings are better expressed aloud than on paper, better said than left inside of him... but lately he has found speaking taxing, even when it is only in Combeferre’s room, crowded by the half dozen of their friends with whom he has deepest kinship. He has always liked more to listen, and to remain silent - but in the past, he did not tire so quickly when giving input of his own.

Enjolras knows that the other men are not used to this degree of wordlessness on his part, and that several of them know little about how to treat him even when he is sitting upright, alert, and out of bed. Jean Prouvaire is shy, Bahorel overt, at times Courfeyrac seems to be trying too hard to engage with him... and Combeferre himself seems caught between doctor and friend.

They have not spoken of their July dispute, and Enjolras longs to.

The days which led up to the revolution - for it was a revolution, they will remember it as such, even with an outcome which served only to subdue the people, not to liberate them - had left all of the society of the Friends of the ABC in a state of thorough, and at times frantic, preparation.

Combeferre's unwavering dedication to natural progress had clashed with the severity of Enjolras's own beliefs more than ever prior; their quarrel was resolved not by patient dialogue but by necessity.

Words of severity came forth in outbursts he had not known he was capable of directing at Combeferre; simultaneously, the iciness of Combeferre's retaliation - and instigation, at times - struck him not for the words spoken but the revelation that he was experiencing firsthand a harshness he had previously only observed.

Yet - on what he knows now was the final day of fighting - when Enjolras was cut by a bayonet and bruised by a paving stone, taken by fever within days, Combeferre had continued in his stead for spite of their disputes.

An emeute displayed the worst in them; a revolution evinced the best.

In this regard, it is lucky the people achieved the latter. Now that they must regroup, recuperate, and prepare once again for what the future may hold, Enjolras cannot stand the indolence of his exchanges with Combeferre.

He shed his feelings of vulnerability days ago, sometime between the insistent spooning of laudanum into his mouth with the forced relocation of his elbow and the prick of a needle and thread through his skin. Combeferre has seen him in states which no other man has ever, provided comfort in ways which Enjolras would never have fathomed asking of him. In less than the duration of August they have deepened their relationship beyond even their intimate bond cultivated in their previous years beside each other.

And yet, Combeferre continues to engage in political discussion with every man but him, to speak to him as though he is not a wounded intimate friend but only a patient. Personal conversation between them feels so shallow it may not be personal at all.

Combeferre moves a lock of Enjolras’s hair from where it touches his neck to tuck it behind his ear, and Enjolras hears again the sound of pouring water. He opens his eyes, blinks - they are in Combeferre’s bedchamber, and before him is the bed upon which he has slept more than a fortnight. The room is lit by daylight, though the curtain is drawn for privacy. It keeps the room dim.

The water runs along his torso and ribs in thin streams.

“Combeferre.”

“Yes?” comes the reply, his tone akin to pity.

Again Enjolras shivers.

“I am not incapable of washing myself,” he says, as firm and unwavering as he can. In days past his word has made little difference in Combeferre’s medical recommendation; indeed, it has always required a second opinion. Unlike Combeferre, Joly has been both honest and transparent.

Enjolras wonders what Combeferre will do now that he can no longer deny that the infection has subsided.

It takes Combeferre a moment to say anything: out of offence, out of discomfort, it is unclear. When he does, his own voice is soft, tentative: “yes. I know.”

“I presumed -” he continues, and then stops. “Here,” he adds, and Enjolras feels the wet cloth press against his open palm.

He grips it, feeling the water run along his wrist and drip to his bare legs below.

“Neither, Combeferre, are you prohibited from speaking with me as a companion.”

“Allow me to wash your hair, then,” says Combeferre, in a hesitant whisper, and Enjolras does not force the matter.

He tilts his head up into Combeferre’s hands and closes his eyes in a silent assent, holding the cloth in his hands but doing nothing with it. Behind him, Combeferre begins to separate the curls and knots in his hair with gentle hands, combing with his fingers at the ends. His touches are immeasurably gentle, and he spends time at a particular section of Enjolras’s head with utmost care.

Enjolras does not think there is blood left in his hair, but he has not seen a looking-glass in days: Combeferre does not keep one in his bedchamber, and Enjolras does not like to use them.

Entirely silent , Combeferre kneads his knuckles to Enjolras’s scalp in a circular, rhythmic motion; somehow, it is almost enjoyable.

_No, not almost._

Enjolras cannot prevent his own contented sigh at the contact, and this time, at least, Combeferre does not cease for fear of harm.

“Combeferre,” murmurs Enjolras, leaning his head against Combeferre’s hands before he can stop himself.

Combeferre tugs a little at a lock of hair, twirls, and Enjolras urges himself to calm. Neither irritation nor nervousness has ever served him well in the past, and there is no reason it will do so now: Combeferre is caring, but he must acknowledge the rift between them in his own time.

Enjolras can allow it - indeed, he must. He settles for paying attention to his own aches and pains with the washcloth, and for Combeferre’s careful, tentative attention to his hair.  By the time he’s satisfied with the cleanliness of his own body, Combeferre is still working. The action is mindless, Enjolras thinks, and it is another which he cannot begrudge his friend for: after all, the ministrations are pleasant.

Minutes pass; the water cools. His legs tingle from inactivity.

“I owe you an apology,” Combeferre says, as he rinses Enjolras’s hair with the last kettle of heated water, massaging his fingers through the locks.

Enjolras hums in response, for he has not mustered thought enough to speak. With a tilt of his head, he shifts more upright, bending his knees to his chest. The warm water is enough to rekindle his awareness. “You owe me linens, also. Then we may talk.”

He stands, but doesn’t turn. There is no purpose to, he reasons, and his legs need to adjust to supporting him again, anyhow. From behind him, Combeferre passes over a dry cloth; when he has dried himself - at least, to his own content - Combeferre gives him a nightshirt, as well. He steps from the basin to dress.

Lifting his arm is still a partial struggle, and he moves slowly. Combeferre, if he is watching, says nothing. Enjolras remains silent: his strength is still returning, but he is not - _incapable_.

By the time he is dressed, Enjolras finally turns to meet Combeferre’s gaze. Intuitively, he knows that Combeferre had not turned away from him as he dressed. For a moment, they look at one another, Combeferre’s cheeks a little flushed, his brow creased still in worry. He clasps his hands in front of him, wringing them with what Enjolras knows from their years together to be anxiety.

For the past few weeks, it has seemed as though Combeferre has done everything within their power to cut their connection like it is fraying ropes, to distance himself as much as he can from Enjolras’s emotion and his illness both. Irrational, illogical though it seemed, Enjolras found his understanding of that behaviour from his observations of their other friends and companions.

The bond which he and Combeferre share is wordless, equal, and tender, and it was formed not with ropes but with steel.

And so the realization now comes to Enjolras easily.

“You are forgiven,” he breathes, and Combeferre’s hands still. In seconds, the gap between them has closed.

They will talk. Each of them, Enjolras knows, will explain his side in detail, and Enjolras will express what he has felt, and what he knows, and his wishes. He will listen to Combeferre’s thoughts, to his philosophical worries, to his own desires and regrets.

Until then, Enjolras is fulfilled by their embrace.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTdQRtU5O_I


End file.
